PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

My Musings

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Soaked

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For a brief moment, I had considered doing Dry January. That is, no alcoholic beverages for one month. As a beer brewer, I'm disinclined to eschew the imbibing of effervescent liquids, especially in January, the second darkest month on the calendar in terms of actual sun, but much darker than December, since we've already done all the gathering and exchanging of gifts and hugs and COVID.

Then I heard about Damp January. This is where you cut down on drinking but don't stop entirely. I encountered some friends early in January at an art opening, several of whom proclaimed that they were doing Dry January. These people quickly opted for Damp January once we left the gallery and found ourselves in a pub. Other friends joined, and based on the several beers they ordered that evening, I would estimate that their January was business-as-usual at minimum, which is to say rather a Soggy January indeed. Soggy January lies somewhere between Moist January (just above Damp), and Drenched January, where you don't drink any beer at all, but instead replace the beer with an equal liquid measure of gin.

Just above Dry January on the continuum would be Humid January, where a thimbleful of session ale is consumed every few days just to keep the tastebuds from withering, and above that is Clammy January, for those people who believe that a small half-snifter of red wine is a necessary evil, consumed in order to extend one's life. (I don't want to drink this Rioja Reserva, but according to research…)

Meanwhile, proponents of Arid January think people who do Dry January aren't taking it far enough and refuse even the occasional mocktail. Parched January afficionados drink only water. Devotees of Dessicated January would prefer to die than let any moisture into their bodies.

I decided that January was an excellent time to brew 10 gallons of beer, currently being converted from sugary goo into actual drinkable beverages. Looking forward to February. 

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Daily Haiku

 

Cats oft’ void their guts.

They cough out fur balls. They puke.  

We tread carefully.  

 

College Tuition

We dig ourselves a deep hole

Need a second job.

 

Now that I’m sixty

People think I’m a wise man

Probably, I’m not

 

I’m in my Fifties

But tomorrow I’m Sixty

Will need a sports car

 

My PCP Says

“Keep doin’ what yer doin’”

Prob’ly I should not

 

It’s St. Patrick’s Day

We eat beef that has been corned

Whatever that means

 

Robots and A.I.

I will make use of these soon

To do my taxes

 

Strange Oscar night end

Pacino failed to mention

Best pic nominees

 

Who’s this Katie Britt?

Scary. Wierd. We could have used

A Trigger Warning

 

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